


Whatever It Takes

by Lady_Vibeke



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU from 8x17, F/M, Humour, pure shmoop, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 16:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3857245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Vibeke/pseuds/Lady_Vibeke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s an angel and a demon.<br/>Outside the walls surrounding them, the Apocalypse is pending.<br/>The angel glares at the demon like he wants to kill her with his eyes. There’s Holy Fire all around him. There’s fire in the burning embers of her eyes.<br/>“We’re going to Heaven, Clarence,” she says, a smug edge to her sly tone.<br/>She has no idea her own words will take a whole different meaning, one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever It Takes

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first Supernatural fanfic ever. Megstiel owns my heart and I owed this to them.  
> I sort of felt like writing a story including any sort of fluff possible, because I'm pretty sure I won't have the guts to write another one and I really want to see my babies get what they deserved. Hope you like this, even though it turned out so damn long.  
> Also, please note that I write in British English, so you'll find a lot of "-ise" instead of "-ize". Since I once was told it's a misspelling, I always point this out in advance: not a spelling mistake, just British.  
> Also (again), English is not my native language, so, please, forgive anything that might have slipped my revision.

_“A life without Meg_ _, even an immortal life, would be... empty.”  
(Hercules) _

 

xXx

 

 

_There’s an angel and a demon._

_Outside the walls surrounding them, the Apocalypse is pending._

_The angel glares at the demon like he wants to kill her with his eyes. There’s Holy Fire all around him. There’s fire in the burning embers of her eyes._

_“We’re going to Heaven, Clarence,” she says, a smug edge to her sly tone._

_She has no idea her own words will take a whole different meaning, one day._

xxx

The smell of blood is an iron punch through the lungs. It fills the cold night air. It fills his mind. It fills his heart.

There’s a body lying on the ground.

It’s not the only one, but to him it is.

He kneels, raises a hand to brush strands of blond hair from a pale face covered in blood. He came back for her, but it’s too late.

“Meg.”

It’s not a whisper. It’s not a call. She’s not _there_. She’s gone and he doesn’t want her to be gone. All that’s left is lifeless human flesh and clean trails crossing her face where tears washed the blood away.

She cried. He wonders what for. Whom for.

He doesn’t want to mourn here, so he takes her away, flies them both to a quiet town at the edge of a wood, away from the concrete, away from the blood.

“Meg.”

It’s a _prayer_.

There’s no one left to pray, but he prays, grief piercing through him like needles, and he hates this human weakness, this unbearable sense of _loss_ carving into him.

His fingers stroke her skin with something like devotion. Somewhere deep inside him, a wounded beast is roaring for numbness.

All he wants is to erase himself and give everything he is, was and ever will be to bring her back. He’d give the whole world. He doesn’t care about anything else any longer.

It may be a sob escaping from his sore throat. It may be a cry. It may be a battle cry.

“ _Meg_.”

It may be the end.

And then it happens.

It’s like the universe is breaking into pieces, all within his very core, exploding into a thousand shards that steal his vital energy to leave him drained and breathless and cold and…

“Clarence?”

It’s an invocation. A sigh. A breath for life.

It’s _her_ voice.

It’s _life_.

And everything has a meaning again.

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon._

_The demon was dead, except maybe she wasn’t. Not really._

_“How the hell did you do that, Clarence?”_

_The angel lies on the ground, barely conscious, barely here. Whatever he did, he did for her, and that’s all that counts._

_“I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse and nearly too weak to be heard._

_“I was_ gone _.”_

_“I know.”_

_The demon knows she’s not worth a dime. She’s filthy and rotten and drenched in sin and nothing valuable to an angel. And yet he – so pure beneath all the blood on his hands – he came back for her._

_“You brought me back from Hell.”_

_The angel tries to stifle a pained grimace. His eyes flutter, lids fighting to stay open. He’s exhausted, like he moved the whole universe, turned it upside-down, inside-out, then put it back together. Maybe he did._

_He attempts the ghost of a smile._

_“You still owe me a pizza.”_

xxx

Castiel is a limp bag of human flesh and, as far as Meg knows, this might be permanent.

Plus, she’s not feeling exactly peachy herself.

She had to muster up all the little strength she had to haul him up from the pool of dark blood her own body spilled and carry him somewhere safe. The idiot is definitely alive, but not even remotely functional. Whatever it is he did, it took all his angel batteries to fulfil, which sucks, because she has no idea how to recharge an angel. She’s not even sure it’s possible.

She finds a place for them to rest, and luckily she doesn’t have to go too far. It’s an abandoned house with yellow tape sealing the main entrance and a thick layer of dust coating everything inside, a nice splutter of brown, dried blood scattered all over the main hall wall, adding an agreeable vibe to the general scenery. Just like she likes it: quiet and cosy. Safe enough, too.

Meg is glad there’s nothing but trees around, because she feels like she’s going to pass out any moment and she couldn’t handle nosy humans, in her current condition.

“Here we are,” she exhales, dropping Castiel on the large sofa. The white sheet that’s been thrown over it is pristine white and it’s a real pleasure to cover it in blood stains. “Home sweet home.”

Meg slumps down next to him, head falling back on the cushions.

If it were any other day, she’d say she feels like crap. On the other hand, for one who just walked out of Death’s gates and apparently got away with that, she reckons she’s doing quite good.

She lets her eyelids fall closed with pictures of Hell’s flames dancing beneath them. Drifting into unconsciousness, she’s vaguely aware of the warmth of Castiel’s hand under her own.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’s chuckling.

xxx

They’re out for a few days.

When Meg opens her eyes, she’s been tucked into a bed and Castiel is sitting in a puffy armchair next to her, his eyes so pathetically anxious she should be laughing in his face, if only she had the strength.

“Hello, Meg.” So much relief. It’s a sound but it’s also a caress, something soft and warm and nice causing a funny feeling in the nape of her neck.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

“Three days.”

Something in the way he speaks suggests he’s not just saying that. He actually means he’s _literally_ been sitting by her side for three days straight. Also, apparently angels do recharge, somehow.

Meg tries to sit up, but all her body feels completely boneless.

“You should rest,” he says, and she hates how patronizing he sounds. But maybe it also pleases her. Just a little.

“No rest for the wicked,” she groans as she fights her way up, using her elbows to push herself up. “How are you feeling, anyway?”

He hesitates. “My angel powers are not working.” It’s a statement, not a complaint.

Meg turns her head to the window. It’s night, outside. She closes her eyes and inhales the stale smell of the blankets she’s wrapped in and it’s almost comforting.

“Meaning we’re stuck here,” she muses, blissful undertones adding an involuntary dreaminess to her voice. “Good.”

Of course, Castiel misses it completely.

“You don’t have to stay,” he mumbles, almost apologetically. “As soon as you’ve recovered, you can –”

Meg huffs impatiently. He really doesn’t get it.

“Seriously, Clarence? You burned up your angel mojo to bring me back from the dead. And, incidentally, that’s literally the first thing someone’s ever done for me. Do you get it?” She stares intently into his eyes, letting her words work their way into his feathery brains. “You think there’s anywhere else I’d rather be?”

He just looks back at her, something shimmering in his eyes.

She hardly dares to wonder what it is.

She’s sure she doesn’t deserve it, anyway.

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon._

_They’re sort of living together and their sort of house is a former murder scene nobody ever bothered to claim back. So they do._

_The demon is still weak, but she’s slowly recovering. The angel takes care of her like she once did for him and slowly – unconsciously, perhaps – works to turn the house into a home.  He’s nesting, the demon thinks at some point, and doesn’t understand why this thought feels like a stab in her chest._

_“Why do you look so sad all of a sudden?” the angel inquires, deep lines of concern all across his forehead._

_“I was thinking about Heaven.”_

_He frowns._

_“What do you know about Heaven?”_

_She smirks under too many shades of blue. Pretends there’s no answer, but she only doesn’t want to hear herself utter the sound._

You.

xxx

Castiel seems to like the settlement. While Meg is bed-ridden, he takes up cleaning and fixing long forgotten things. Most of the time, he ends up worsening any damage he’s trying to repair, but that keeps him busy and Meg likes to watch him do stuff. Angel-wise, he may be useless, but he’s trying his best to be decent as a human being, and that’s so adorable it’s hard to ignore.

“Is that chair so important?” she asks once, as he’s struggling with a wobbly wooden leg.

“There’s only a good one in the kitchen, and there’s two of us,” he replies candidly. Like they’re ever going to make dinner and sit together in the candle light.

Meg doesn’t point out they’re not meant to _stay_. She’d much rather not think about it.

“I’m starting to think you just like broken things.”

“I love broken things,” he agrees wistfully, not looking up from his work. “Have you ever heard of the Japanese practice of _kintsugi_?” He doesn’t wait for her to say no. “The pieces of shattered pottery are put back together with a golden lacquer to highlight the cracks. Such items are believed to be more beautiful and valuable than pristine ones. They’re _heroes_.”

He gazes at her and they get lost in each other’s eyes, blue skies in dark embers, and momentarily forget of the world. Meg curses herself for almost smiling at that. Curses him for bringing her to _this_.

“You’re such a corny feathery thing.”

“I am aware of your distaste in poetry.”

Meg doesn’t reply to that, but it’s not entirely true.

“You keep trying, Fluffy,” she winks. “You may get something right, some day.”

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon, and somehow they haven’t killed each other yet._

xxx

Days pass and pile up, almost unnoticed, and stretch out into weeks, and the atmosphere slowly shifts from looming precariousness to some kind of almost committed stability. And it’s all _his_ doing.

It’s little things appearing, seemingly out of thin air, here and there: a withering plant he’s retrieved somewhere outside, which he somehow manages to restore back to life; a few candles settled on her bedside table, so that she can read the magazines he brings for her even after dark. And the cushion. The cushion he fetches from the sofa to place next to her pillow for himself to sit, snuggle, lie with her as she reads the time away.

It’s a slow, gradual drift towards something one may call domesticity. Which is weird, because Meg is no home person. She’s a stray, wild and fierce and restless, and sometimes four walls around a stray feel more like a cage rather than a shelter. But sometimes stays are not strays by choice and having a home and a family – all these human trivialities – is something they could get accustomed to. Even enjoy, perhaps.

“You really think your angelness is gone for good?” she asks once, out of thin air.

“Perhaps not for good. But I lost my Grace when I saved you.”

“I'm sorry.” She’s not sympathising or anything. She’s just being honest.

“I'm not.” He may have lost his Grace, but he has his Meg, and it's fair enough to him.

Meanwhile, Meg is getting better and better, which is mysteriously making her feel worse and worse, and it’s a funny dynamic she cannot quite comprehend.

“You look good,” he says one morning, seeing her appear on the kitchen door. It’s been days since she woke up and being back on her feet feels great and horrible at the same time. She actually doesn’t look anything near good, because her clothes are torn and crusted in blood and she really would kill for a shower.

“I look like plain crap, but thanks for trying.”

She slumps down in front of him at the table. He has a jagged cup in his hands, half full of steamy black coffee. Meg snatches it from him and unceremoniously takes a sip. She grimaces as she gulps it down.

“This coffee is stale, Clarence.”

“Everything in the cupboard is.”

She shakes her head. “Our little dysfunctional household needs better managing.”

It was a quip, but Castiel’s response is very serious: “I was thinking we should… maybe get some stuff, make ourselves more… _comfortable_.”

 _Get some stuff_ , she repeats in her mind. _Make ourselves more comfortable._

As in _not leave_.

As in _stay_.

As in _settle down_.

As in _are you kidding me_.

But all she says as she shrugs is: “Maybe we should.”

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon and something like some sort of bad joke, because they’re living in a murder scene and piling magazines in a corner and growing flowers on the windowsills like it’s a real thing._

_There’s two people starting something they don’t even realise is there._

xxx

Castiel loves food and he’s been stuffing fresh groceries in the cupboard for days. They’re running out of  money, too.

“You have to stop buying perishable foods,” she complains one day, throwing handfuls of decaying salad out of the window. “We don’t have a fridge.”

“I’ll find one.”

“We don’t even have electricity.”

“I’ll see about that, too.”

He sounds so sure of himself she doesn’t have the heart to argue.

“Meg?” he calls back as she makes to leave.

“What?”

His eyes are glistering. “We don’t have a fridge. We don’t even have electricity.”

She frowns bewilderedly, wondering why not having a fridge or electricity seems to make him so happy. Then his smile widens a bit, and it kicks in.

We.

 _We_.

For some reason, she suddenly feels like she’s swallowed the sun.

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon, and sometimes they forget they’re not the same._

_Learning each other is daily climb to a higher point of view, a deeper dive into unknown worlds they struggle to understand. They slam their noses against one another’s walls, and hurt, and bruise, and bleed, and yell, then heal, then try again until they make it through._

_There’s an angel and a demon, but they’re really trying just to_ be _._

xxx

“Don’t give me that Sammy face, Feathers. I’m a demon, that’s what I do.”

She doesn’t want to sound so sharp and cold and aggressive, but he’s looking at her with _those_ eyes, and he’s making her skin hitch all over. Things is, she just killed a boy who was trying to sneak into the house and little does it matter he was possessed by a demon. He was still just _a boy_.

There is a short pause, and Meg already pictures Castiel’s retort in her mind: _“And I’m an angel. It should be my duty to stop you,”_ or _“You don’t really have to, though,”_ or something like that.

But none of that comes.

“I know,” is what she hears, instead.  A soft, thoughtful reply that makes her rip her eyes off her bloody hands. Castiel’s face is still darkened by troubled lines, his eyes still scrutinizing her intensely.

Meg’s lips part. She tries to keep them from curving up into a smug grin, but it’s harder than she expected.

“You _know?_ ” She tilts her head to one side, mockery oozing from each syllable. “Is that all you have to say about me tearing a kid’s throat apart?”

“It was a _possessed_ kid.”

“I told you I should go first. Your smiting prowess is still off, you idiot.”

“Had it been functional, it would have killed the boy, anyway. And he was about to kill _me,_ instead.”

“So that cleanses it all? Saving angels excuses a demon’s bloodlust?”

“Saving anyone does that, in my opinion.”

Meg addresses him a challenging glance.

“I wouldn’t have saved _anyone_ , Clarence, and you know that.” The way her eyes reach out for his screams out all the unspoken words that have been lingering between the two of them for so long, now.

“Neither of us asked to be what we are,” Castiel argues matter-of-factly. “You were made into a demon by Hell’s tortures. I’m not blaming you. It’s your nature. But you made choices against this nature and you deserve credit for that. ”

“But I’m still a killer.” She has no idea why she’s so obstinate about this. Why does it bother her so much that he’s trying to see some good in her?

Castiel steps closer to her. The contempt she used to see in him once, when bad was bad and good was good an in-betweens were  unthinkable, has been replaced by this bright feeling she doesn’t want to find a name for.

“I know that you wouldn’t kill anyone, if I asked you not to,” he whispers as he takes one of her blooded hand into his own.

“So what counts most?” she replies, almost daringly. “That I _would_ kill people or that I wouldn’t if you asked me not to?”

“Both.” And why does he have to wear such an earnest, adorable face? “Because it’s the former making the latter so important.”

 _Shut up_ , she wants to snap, but there’s this funny giggly feeling simmering in her chest and it’s bringing a grin to her lips.

“Look at all the independence of thoughts pouring from this Child of God.” This is what her voice says. Her heart is building up unwanted poetry. “You barely sound like an angel.”

Castiel’s thumb strokes the back of Meg’s hand. “You barely act like a demon.”

“I still don’t know why you’re sticking with me. You could be anywhere. With anyone.”

His fingers squeeze through hers. “You are important to me, Meg. I still have difficulties in understanding my own feelings. Human emotions are still foreign, to me, and extremely complex to figure out, but… after a long reasoning, I have come to the conclusion that this _warmth_ I feel inside when I’m with you, when I think of you...” He regards her closely, eyes dark and burning, heart beat fast, and faster. “I believe it means I am in love with you.”

Meg cannot deny any longer that she does have a heart. She knows for sure, now, because she’s positive it just fell down at her feet. Or maybe it’s swelling in her throat, which would explain the sudden knot she feels there.

_Damn you and your beautiful everything, Clarence._

Their faces have got dangerously close and, light years away, memories of Dean Winchester’s complaints about _personal space_ are echoing, unheeded.

The fire in Meg’s irises grows wilder and suddenly the skies in Castiel’s eyes, too, are flaring with roaring flames. He leans in closer until his forehead rests against hers, tips of their noses skimming. Their bodies might be mere bags of meat, but it’s like liquid electricity is running in their veins.

“I am currently experiencing a strong urge to kiss you,” he sighs low in his throat, so huskily she feels a shiver shake her spine.

She snickers, just as huskily. “Now, that’s more like the kind of poetry that will get you places with girls.”

And all she knows after is that she feels the warm softness of his lips close on hers ever so slowly, one of his hands sliding to the nape of her neck, the other one claiming her waist to pull her to him.

The kiss is long but frantic, tentative, as if by this they were asking each other a question they still don’t have an answer to. Meg’s natural fierceness melts in Castiel’s gentleness. She’s forgotten of her life as a human, and as a demon she never had anything like this for herself. Never even wanted it. Until she met him. He’s kissing like she’s something precious and wonderful, and there’s a touch of revealing hunger in this, something feverish she can feel in the way his fingers intertwine with her hair and pull, turn, draw, in the way his body presses into hers, seeking for contact, for _more_.

When they pull apart – breathless, speechless – Meg feels paralised. She looks at him like she wants to shake her head, eyes full of pity, pity drenched in ridiculous fondness.

“We're a big, fat tangle of messed up, Clarence.”

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon._

_There’s a dark, silent house and a distant sound of frantic breaths seeping through a door left ajar._

_There’s two creatures historically meant to destroy each other who decided History could screw itself, because they aren’t going to keep their hands off each other. And not in the historically accurate way._

xxx

“That was…” Castiel begins, fumbling for words and for air. Meg snickers, rising and falling with his chest. He has an arm draped over her shoulders, hand tracing absentminded paths along her arm. They’re naked and hot and sweaty and if they hold onto each other any harder, they’ll just merge together and never sever again.

“Yes, it was,” she agrees, lips brushing idly against his collarbone. Her whole body is shaking a little, and it’s not just because of the shivers of pleasure slowly fizzling out.

She’s faced any sort of horror in her long, unpredictable life, and fear has hardly ever touched her. She’s accustomed to isolation, pain, grief, torture… but _this_ – this is something else. This is something she may get used to. Gladly, too. And it’s terrifying.

“Meg?” Castiel’s tone is unsure.

“Mh?”

“Are you happy?”

What a stupid question. Stupid and annoying. And there’s no reason her heart should shrink right now.

“I feel happy,” he conveys, eyes on the ceiling, before she can even think about it.

“You feel happy even when you eat a burger,” she objects, trying to inject some humour a moment that’s getting way too solemn for her taste.

Castiel turns to look down at her. Meg’s hand is right on that spot where she can distinctly sense the increase in his heart beat.

“This is a different kind of happy,” he remarks, and fuck that puppy face he’s giving her. “The burger happiness ends with the burger. _This_ ,” he adds, fingers squeezing her side lightly. “This feels stronger, more… _permanent_. I can’t explain… it’s like something has rooted inside me and keeps growing every day.”

“You’re making me want to puke, you know?”

“Are you unwell?”

And Meg cannot take it anymore. The tension and the nervousness break her down into a low giggle she tries to stifle in Castiel.

“I don’t understand,” he stutters, halfway between confused and consternated, Meg’s face buried in his neck.

She just keeps laughing.

xxx

The job he’s found at a local supermarket isn’t much, but it pays for his food obsession and some new clothes for himself and Meg. He also has an employee discount, which doesn’t hurt. They have running water, at home, but never use it, because it would draw unnecessary attention. He fetches tanks of fresh water from the fountain in the town centre, and it’s more than enough for them to wash themselves and the few clothes they own.

One night he gets back home and the whole place is lit up like a Christmas tree. Inside, he finds Meg in the kitchen, surrounded by a mess of wires and electric tools.

“What is this?” he inquires, forgetting of the two shopping bags in his hands.

“I got us free electricity,” she struts as she pushes a freshly replaced plug socket into the wall. By _free_ she means they’re now sucking public electricity, but Castiel doesn’t inquire about that. He addresses her an amused smile instead.

“Did you?”

“Do you doubt me, Clarence?”

“I didn’t know you were an electrician.”

Meg rolls her eyes impatiently. “Am not. I googled it,” and she nods towards an expensive-looking smartphone sitting on the table.

“What does _google_ mean?” He points at the smartphone. “And where does _that_ come from?”

“Found it in a dick’s pocket two days ago. He was already dead, incidentally. And that trinket was the cheapest thing the guy had on himself. Apart from a fairly good deal of cash, that is.”

“Which I suppose you _drew_. Since he was dead.” She can tell he’s trying to sound scolding, but his half smile gives him all away.

“I made sure he had two pennies for the Reaper.” She glances at his bags. “Put your groceries away, will you? I have to get this stuff back to the garage down the street before they notice it’s gone.”

“Oh, you _borrowed_ them.” He hints a little smirk. “Good.”

Meg collects the tools and throws them into a box she lifts up in her arms.

“I’m a killer,” she says as she walks past him. “Not a thief.”

It’s a joke of bad taste. It really shouldn’t make him laugh.

But it does.

xxx

Meg is not cut out for doing nothing and she tries to occupy her days as best as she can. Even though her recovery is still not complete she’s finally strong enough to venture outside on her own.

She explores the neighbourhood and then the town, occasionally pick-pocketing jerks when she reckons they deserve it. Bonus points if they hit on her with misogynistic lines.

She likes walking in the wood behind the house and collect wild berries for the mere sake of it. Or maybe for the mere sake of the angel living with her. Castiel happens to love fruits but it’s not like she’s doing it specifically _for him_. Yet she smiles to herself walking back home with a good basketful of blue and red berries. She can already picture Castel’s face as he pops them into his mouth one by one, fingers coated in purplish juice.

She has to stop for a moment on her way back and rest on a bench in the shade because the weather is really hot, today, and the exertion made her a little dizzy.

When she gets home, Castiel has fixed himself some dinner. Whatever it is he made, it smells delicious.

“You sure you don’t want some?” he asks, but she declines.

“I got you fruit porn, though,” she announces, handing the basket over to him.

He beams. “Thank you. Was your day good?”

Meg yawns, something she rarely does, and slouches down into a chair. “Can’t complain. Though I have to say the change in the temperature is making my meat-suit a bit queasy.”

He sits down and scowls at her. “I’m not sure you should go around on your own. What if something happens to you?”

“Yeah, what happens?” she smirks defiantly.

Castiel is all innocent eyes and oblivious bewilderment. “I don’t want to feel again like I felt that day when I found you in that pool of blood. Ever.” His face is so genuine and heart-crushing Meg would swear she feels something sting in her eyes.

“Don’t ruffle your feathers, Clarence,” she reassures him, secretly basking in the way he’s scrutinizing her, almost in adoration. “I’m fine. Or somewhere reasonably near there.”

He nods, not taking his eyes from her. “I won’t let anything ever happen to you again, Meg. I promise.”

She scoffs and leans back into her chair, nodding towards his plate. “Shut up and eat before it runs cold.”

But she knows he means every word.

xxx

They’re having a stroll in the wood, one afternoon, and she catches him staring at an abandoned plaid shirt on a fallen trunk covered in musk. She knows exactly how to translate the distant look on his face.

“Do you miss your pet humans?”

He winces slightly. “What?”

“The Winchester plague,” Meg elaborates, slipping her hand into his. “Do you miss them?”

She doesn’t expect a white lie and she’s not disappointed.

“Of course I do.”

“You could ring them up, you know,” she suggests, leaning closer into him, chin on his shoulder. “I could bear with them for a while, for you.”

Castiel squeezes her hand, turning to her with a small, grateful grin.

“I know you would.”

They resume their stroll and no one mentions the Winchesters again. Until life’s questionable irony strikes them.

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon._

_They’ve built a life together out of scratch and never in their long, pointless lives had they ever dreamed they would have something like this._

_The angel has his arms wrapped around the demon as they lie in bed together, and there’s this new feeling under his hands, like the demon’s skin has gotten warmer, lately, and somehow more… electric. But that’s not the term. He doesn’t have a term for what he’s sensing. Whatever it is, it’s completely new to him, but he soon finds out he enjoys this feeling._

xxx

It’s Sunday and it’s spring and the weather outside it so lovely Castiel is up at sunrise to take care of their little backyard. He planted some flowers because he wanted to have honeybees around, and now there’s a lush blooming colouring the garden. There’s also a hawthorn, but it was already there when they arrived, so Meg can’t really blame him for the obvious quips of thorns and beauty he makes sometimes.

Castiel loves taking care of his plants and the soft sound of the wind blowing in the trees and the droning buzz of the bees surrounding him as he works.

It’s past midday when gets back inside and Meg is nowhere to be seen. He finds out she’s still in bed, not simply lazing about, but actually slumbering. Which is odd, because, like angels, demons don’t really need sleep.

“Meg?”

Silence.

“Meg, are you alright?”

An undiscernible groan comes from underneath the blankets. He goes to sit next to her, running a hand through her messy hair.

“It’s late.”

“ ‘m tired,” she mumbles in a sleepy drawl.

“You’ve been napping for the past few days,” he insists. “Are you sure nothing is wrong with you?”

She turns idly, finally allowing him to see her face. His hand immediately moves to her cheek.

“All that’s wrong with me is that I’m lying here and you’re not entertaining me.” She drags him down into a fervent kiss before she can even see him blush, and she usually takes great pleasure in making him.

Castiel falls into her arms – falls into _her_ – and the point of the conversation is soon forgotten.

He lets her strip him of his clothes and pin him down into the mattress with a sly grin that never fails to arouse him in ways he could have never imagined.

And there’s that sensation, too. Meg’s body, ever the same, and yet feeling so different. Not just warmer, but tenderer, fuller. Stronger, too.

He wonders if she can perceive this change, too.

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon and…_

xxx

The full realisation comes way later than the first signs.

It takes a few weeks and a remarkable increase in Meg’s aura for Castiel to understand what is really going on.

It happens suddenly on a Wednesday night and it strikes him like a lightning: one moment he’s kissing her against the wall, a moment later he breaks away like he got electrocuted, and maybe that’s not even so metaphorical.

Meg glowers at him, quite annoyed about the abrupt interruption. “What?”

Castiel gapes, eyes wide and full of shock. She can hear his heart hammer furiously against his ribcage, panic flooding his veins. But not only that.

“ _What?_ ”

“There’s life inside of you,” he breathes, barely audibly.

Meg lets out something halfway between a scoff and a laugh.

“I do feel pretty alive since you bothered to revive me, _five months ago_. Thanks for noticing, though. Better late than never.”

“No.” He has a hard time articulating the sounds. “There’s…” He stammers, breath catching in his throat. He shuffles close to her again and sets his hands on her hips, pulling her to him. He looks terrified and amazed.

“There’s life inside of you.” And then he says it. “A _whole new life_.”

xxx

_… and something in between._

xxx

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do. I can feel it. I could feel it before, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. But it’s clear, now.” He sounds so excited, so _marveled_. “I can see it, as though it’s written all over you.”

He smiles.

Why is he _smiling_?

There’s no damn thing to smile about.

“How did this even happen?” It’s not a question. Meg is just wondering, eyes transfixed into nothingness. “This isn’t even supposed to _be_.”

_A whole new life._

Her mind is spinning, which is no good, because she’s already feeling giddy enough.

“I have no knowledge about demon-angel hybrids,” Castiel utters tentatively. “Our species are ontologically opposite. Nemesis to one another, even. But I guess… we’re inhabiting human vessels. We do not age, but we’re still keeping these bodies alive and functional, so…”

“Speak for yourself,” she spits grimly, slumping helplessly into the sofa. “I have poison running in my veins. _Poison_ , Clarence, as in _lethal for humans_. And angels, too, theoretically. And now you tell me there’s a baby abomination growing in me?” The volume of her voice increases as her features harden. “With poison blood and bright little wings, or whatever it’s taking after you? What sort of _monster_ is it going to be?”

He flinches at the word _monster_. It seems to hurt him and Meg wishes she didn’t feel so sorry for that.

“As far as we know,” Castiel tries to soothe. “It may be completely normal. Human, even.”

“Angel and demon makes _human_? Is your feathery brain seriously that naïve?”

He’s taken aback by all this sudden hostility. “I don’t know what to think, Meg,” he sighs defensively. “I am wholly unprepared to face something like this. What we made is...” A shy, disbelieving smile falters over his lips. “News to the whole universe, I believe.”

“Now don’t you go all mushy on me,” Meg raises a brow mockingly. “ _Our special little thing, first of its kind…_ ” Her voice drips sarcasm and annoyance. “Are we bringing the new Anti-Christ into the world, Clarence?”

He shrugs. “We might be.”

Meg grins mischievously. “Alright then. Maybe I don’t entirely dislike the idea of carrying this bullshit through.”

She’s kidding, or at least she’s trying. She has a turmoil inside she doesn’t want him to see. Especially when he seems so positively impressed by the whole thing. Like they accomplished an incredible achievement without even trying. Which is true, incidentally, but that’s not the point. The point is: now what?

She tries to ask herself how she feels about this, but truth is she doesn’t even know. Is she supposed to feel anything at all? Is she supposed to feel _it_? Is she supposed to _care_?

It doesn’t even feel true, to her.

“What do you want to do?” he inquires after what feels like forever.

Meg casts him surly look. “Why are you asking?”

“Because…” He looks perplexed. “You’re the one carrying this… miracle.”

Typical. It’s all on the girl, apparently. Because it’s depressingly blatant that the moron wants this little miracle, or at least doesn’t mind the idea of seeing it happen. Which is no big deal for Meg: there’s no trace of motherly anything in her guts, but if Feathers wishes her to have the bastard, she has nothing to object.

She still doesn’t want to let him have it too easy, though, so she props against the doorframe and crosses her arms. “You know, you can go cheap and cheesy all you want, I still think this is crap.”

There’s a twitch of doubt in his eyes. It may even be fear. “So?”

She bathes in the pleasure of seeing him flounder. He looks like a child waiting for permission to unwrap a long desired Christmas gift.

Why is it even so important, to him?

“So nothing, sweet wings,” she finally purrs. “Let’s see where this crap goes.”

All tension instantly leaves his body.

Meg forbids herself to smile.

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon._

_Something unexpected happened to them. Something the angel believed to be wondrous and beautiful, but it may not be the blessing he thought it was._

_Thing is, the demon is_ dying _._

xxx

There’s life inside of her, but it’s draining her of all her energy. What began as simple weariness soon becomes like a fever burning her to the very bone, consuming her to the point she can barely stand on her feet.

It’s not so evident, at first. They overlook her tiredness, initially, because he’s _googled_ about it and that is completely normal. So a couple of weeks go by, and then another one, and another again, but in the meantime Meg’s physical conditions worsen. She’s lost a lot of weight and there are deep, dark circles under her eyes. Comparatively, she looked way better when he brought her back from the dead.

“Leave me alone, Clarence,” she moans weakly into her pillow, Castiel’s hand delicately stroking her back. She doesn’t like it when he just sits there and watches her being sore and exhausted.

“No,” he hushes her, hand sliding up to her hair. He brushes a few strands off her pale face, begging her to turn to him. It takes a while, but eventually she obliges.

She sees him cringe at the sight of her.

“Dammit,” she whimpers as she takes in his mortified expression. “Not flattering.”

“I’m worried about you, Meg. This is only going to get worse.” His face bears the signs of a deep grief. "Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Her hand reaches up for her stomach, where it rests on the familiar swell, now too pronounced to go unnoticed, even as she lies. As always, the baby starts moving under her touch. It’s a light, funny feeling, like minuscule bubbles fluttering in her belly. She’s never going to admit this, but the little fellow in there has sort of grown on her.

“Because you did this to me,” she retorts at last. “And it sucks that you can't seem to understand.”

Meg stares at Castiel, worn out to the core, waiting for what’s coming next.

“Maybe we should –” he falters, can’t bring himself to say it out loud, but she doesn’t need to hear it to know what he means. And she doesn’t like it.

“Maybe we should _what_?” But it’s a rhetorical question. They’ve been over this before. He knows she doesn’t want to talk about _remedies_ , but he’s been watching her being consumed, slowly but inexorably, and at this point there is nothing he wouldn’t do to heal her. _Nothing_.

He rubs his hands over his face, shoulders low and dejected. “It may be the only way to save you, Meg.” He’s practically imploring her.

She tells herself she should feel guilty for giving him such a hard time in such a delicate moment, but she doesn’t. He’s the one who wanted this all along. He’s the one she’s doing this for. He cannot just back out, now.

“Screw you!” she snarls with what little energy she has, eyes blazing. “You put this little thing in here and now you want to rip it out _just like that_?” She’s shaking in anger and doesn’t know why.

Castiel’s head falls miserably to his chest.

“Meg, I –” he begins, but Meg cuts him off with a furious glare.

She knows the drill.

He only cares for her.

He’s only trying to figure out how to help her to get better.

All he wants is for her to be safe.

Whatever.

_Whatever._

His eyes are so full of genuine concern Meg can barely look into them. It hurts her even more to see him hurting. She can’t understand why she’s being so protective of the tiny parasite nestled in her womb. It doesn’t make any sense. This thing is slowly killing her and she’s fighting to keep it safe. This goes against all her natural demon instincts of self-preservation.

“Son of a bitch,” she hisses between her teeth, and nearly laughs at her own words.

_Joke’s on you, girl._

“Meg, can we at least talk about this?” Castiel takes her hand in his, and it’s such a sappy gesture she wants to puke. Perhaps she’s tired enough to pass out and avoid the argument. “Please?”

Of course he wants to talk about this. He almost gave his own life to snatch her from Death’s arms and now here she is, dying from something he did to her.

_Joke’s on you, too, Clarence._

“Just leave me be, Cas,” she cries, not even realizing she’s just called him by his true name for the first time. All she wants now is for him to shut up. And maybe _understand_.

Understand why she can’t – _won’t_ – get rid of what they made.

***

It’s worse than it’s ever been, today: she’s in pain, her whole body aching like it’s being torn apart from the inside, like her own flesh wants to strip from the bones. When the pain bites the hardest, she clutches at Castiel, teeth gritting, sight going white, and he cradles her, hums to her, feels himself die a little with every cry she lets out.

“I should tell Sam and Dean about this.” He’s sighing to himself, staring down at his hands. The moon is bright, outside, painting glowing trails on the dark floor. “I should ask them for advice. Maybe they can…”

He thinks she’s asleep, because she has been lying still for a while, but she’s only trying to fight it back. He carried her to the sofa on her own request a couple of hours ago (“Wanna watch something with you,” she breathed), but the random movie on the laptop has rolled and finished without her catching one single minute and now it’s night and Castiel’s arms hold her like she may vanish under his hands any moment.

“Just cut it out,” she murmurs against his chest, breath short and heavy. She’s so spent she’s barely audible. “Whatever you’re going to say, Clarence, they _can’t_.” She stops for a second to fight a blinding pang that almost draws tears from her eyes. “This wasn’t even supposed to happen. Your own God wouldn’t help us, if he could.”

She feels his lips press on her forehead, his fingers curl around her arm. “I’m not going to just watch you die.”

She stiffens in his embrace, grips the fabric of his shirt until her nails hurt.

“Not your choice.”

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon and a seemingly impenetrable wall dividing them._

_The angel doesn’t want the demon to die._

_The demon won’t let the angel save her._

_The tiny creature that is both of them keeps growing._

_The demon keeps dying a little every day._

_The angel still can’t save her._

xxx

She should have known.

She should have foreseen it. Should have expected he wouldn’t _just watch her die_.

So she doesn’t even know why she’s so pissed when one day, in the middle of what she’s roughly counted as her fourth month, two hulking idiots in plaid shirts appear at the back door.

She’s on the sofa, sitting with a pillow behind her back and one under her feet, outstretched onto the coffee table, feeling slightly better than last week. She lowers the magazine she’s been flipping through to glower at the two intruders as they walk in, introduced by the guilty-looking jerk who obviously summoned them.

“Well, well. Look what the Cas dragged in.” She mocks a pleased smile. “Hello, boys.”

The Winchesters stop dead in their tracks, gaping at her wide-eyed.

“Meg.” Dean stammers in shock. “You're... here.” His tone implies: _“I thought you were dead.”_

Her fake smile changes into a complacent smirk. “Flesh and bones.” _And feathery passengers_. “You look way more surprised than you’re supposed to.”

“Might be because we closed Hell's gates, like, one week ago?” The two brothers exchange bemused looks.

Castiel freezes on his spot, eyes darting to Meg, who looks just as dazed as he is.

“You closed Hell’s gates,” Castiel repeats slowly, seeking for confirmation from his two friends.

“You bet, dude,” Dean struts.

“When?”

“It was literally the last thing we did before you called. And we honest to God thought we’d done one good job on that.” His gibe towards Meg goes unnoticed, because she and Castiel are sharing an astonished look.

“That would explain the peak of illness you had,” he says to her.

“Do you reckon I’m still here because…” She glances down at her own middle and leaves the sentence lingering in the air, but Castiel doesn’t need to hear the end of it to nod.

“You had an angelic anchor, it seems.”

“Do share your theories, guys,” Dean pressed. “ ‘cause, really, Meg,” He eyes her with a lifted brow. “I’m morbidly curious: how the hell did your evil ass escape Hell’s bells?”

Castiel steps ahead and plants himself between Dean and Meg. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

The tension in the room is getting dangerously palpable.

“Careful, Deanie Boy,” Meg interjects as Castiel joins her on the sofa. “I’ve got one fierce unicorn.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Dean glares at Castiel, a sense of betrayal darkening his face. “Did I step on your demon whore?”

Castiel is about to snap back, but before he can open his mouth, someone else precedes him:

“Enough, Dean!” Sam’s voice thunders and the boy pushes Dean back against the wall. “Stop being a douchebag, okay? Meg doesn’t deserve any of your shit.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel says.

Dean scoffs at his brother: “Which side are you on?”

“Certainly not yours, when you’re being such a mean dick!”

“What are you, Team Meg, now?”

Meg leans towards Castiel and whispers in his ear: “I know you crush on Older Plaidboy, but if we’re picking a God-parent, I’m gonna go for Hairporn.”

“So,” Sam scratches the back of his head nervously while gazing around. “I gather the two of you have, uh, moved in together?” he asks in an clumsy attempt to hijack the conversation towards safer subjects.

It works. Castiel briefly explains how it all started. How Meg died and he couldn’t let her go. How they ended up here. “We needed a shelter.”

“Lovely crib you got, here,” Dean observes, beholding the room. “I 'specially like the, uh, yellow decorations on the main door.” He points his thumb behind himself. “The ones with the _crime scene do not cross_ stuff. Gives the whole place a nice fuzzy touch, uh?” Dean chortles, very proud of his humour, but Sam hastily elbows him in his ribs and Dean finally shuts up. An awkward silence follows.

“So,” Sam begins uneasily, rubbing his hands together. "You said you needed our help, Cas. Is the house hunted or something?”

As a reply, Meg lets the magazine in her hands fall to her lap, revealing the small, rounded detail it was concealing.

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon and there’s two human brothers freaking out in their living room._

xxx

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean is babbling. “Are you telling me _you_ ,” he points at Castiel,” And _her_ ,” he points at Meg. “ _Tangoed_?”

“No, we didn’t do any dancing. We had a sexual intercourse. Several, actually.”

Dean interrupts him brusquely, red as a beetroot. “Whoa, too much information, dude!”

Meg giggles weakly. “Easy, Clarence. You’re traumatizing the children. We haven’t given them the bees and flowers talk yet.”

Castiel looks confused. “I actually talked about honeybees with Dean once.”

“She’s talking about sex and where babies come from, Cas,” Sam clarifies, his face, if possible, even redder than his brother’s.

Castiel blinks. “I don’t understand.”

“You clearly don’t,” Dean snorts, rolling his eyes. “And that’s how you ended up knocking up a demon.”

“I didn’t knock anyone. I would never hurt Meg.” And, as though he wanted to stress the statement, he wraps and arm around her.

“Seriously, Cas? Never heard of _protection_?”

Castiel squints at Dean quizzically.

“We were not in danger.”

Sam nudges his brother. “You know, I don’t think you’re going anywhere with this approach.”

“We lose you for a few months,” Dean pants, ignoring him. “And you settle down and start a family with the queen of Hell’s bitches? _Really?_ ”

Meg may be sapped, but she still has her claws. “Save the flattery, mimbo. It’s not buying you my liking.”

"I told you not to talk to her like that," Castiel stresses again.

At his side, Meg tugs at his arm. “It’s okay, Clarence. Dean is just jealous he cannot carry your child.”

Dean's whole head gains a purplish shade of embarassment, but he's too freaked out to come up with anything but gibberish. “I'm not– What were the odds for you two to– never mind.”

It takes a while – a very long while – but eventually things cool down and Castiel manages to have the two brothers sit down and listen to the whole story. When he’s done, Dean seems much less prone to tease Meg.

“So you’re, uh…”

“Dying,” she says flatly. “Aren’t you pleased?”

He’s not. In fact, Dean has suddenly dropped all his witty banter. He keeps eyeing Castiel’s sorrowful face and the more he does, the darker his mood gets.

“I don’t like you, Meg,” he declares. “But Cas, here, clearly has a soft spot for you, and –”

“I love her,” Castiel stresses, a urge he apparently couldn’t suppress. Meg  quirks a brow and casts Dean a self-satisfied glance, casually stroking the blonde braid lying on her shoulder.

The boy glares back. “Whatever.”

“This is quite, uh… unprecedented,” Sam comments. “There’s no record whatsoever of hybrids between demons and angels. Not that I’m aware of, at least.”

“This might be because you guys usually tend to – you know – slay each other and stuff,” Dean cuts in.

“We’ll check the Men of Letters archive and see what we can get,” Sam promises, trying to speak over his brother’s dull remarks. His demeanour in Meg’s regards is much more civil – respectful, even – than his brother’s. Meg knows why: Sam saw a side of her Dean never did and never will.

“You know, guys, I really hate to ask this, 'cause it sounds pretty damn obvious, but...” Dean turns to Meg. “The little guy is basically eating  you from the inside, right?”

Both Meg and Castiel give a questioning nod.

“Have you tried, uh, like… eating?”

Meg groans. “Fun fact: demons don't need eating, and neither do angels.”

“Fun fact number two,” Dean retorts harshly. “You got a baby something in there and it needs material to grow. No food: little mongrel has to build itself out of your own body. Hence: you die, princess.”

“What Dean is so tactfully trying to explain,” Sam interrupts with a pacifying smile. “Is that this, uh, this baby is the child of an angel and a demon, but you, uh,” He clears his throat, ears and neck turning red. “You conceived it through your human vessels, so it must be made of human flesh, too. Which probably means it needs food and water to develop properly.”

After a brief stall, Meg and Castiel look at each other, then at Sam, then at each other again.

Meg purses her lips. “I’m definitely going for Hairporn.”

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon._

_The angel loves food and eating is one of the things he enjoys most._

_The demon doesn’t love food. She doesn’t even like it. Yet it does her good, so she takes up joining the angel during meals._

_The angel is happy about it. Happy to see her back in health. Happy that she isn’t dying anymore._

_The demon is happy about that, too._

xxx

The night is starry. A fresh wind blows through the trees, carrying their scent down to the porch where Castiel and Dean are sitting with a couple of beers in their hands.

“ ‘s strange to be here like this, right?” Dean muses, downing a sip. “Who would’ve thought?”

“Why is it strange?”

“Dude, you disappear, and then pop out again, and you and Meg have gone all snuggle bears and she's got a bun in the oven.”

Castiel, whose beer is still full, can’t quite follow. “She has no bread in the oven. We don't have an oven, actually.”

Dean lets out a loud, hearty laugh. “See? That’s what I’m talking about, man: you, her, this parody of a house… This out-weirds all manner of weird, and it keeps getting weirder.” He turns back to cast a meaningful look at Meg and Sam chatting inside.

“They seem to get along well,” Castiel notices.

Dean pulls a strange face. “It’s scary seeing Sammy bonding with a demon. But then again, wouldn’t be the first time. And I have to concede Meg is the least annoying of the list.”

It’s not much, but it’s a huge improvement, for Dean Castiel appreciates his effort. “That’s very kind of you.”

Dean keeps quiet for a while, then, all of a sudden, turns to Castiel with a half smirk. “Dude, you’re going to be a _dad_. This is some serious shit.”

Castiel nods absently. “I know.” He still needs to fully realise what is happening and he’s not sure he will until the very end. Still, now that Meg’s life isn’t in danger anymore, he can allow himself to feel excited. He can allow his heart to finally make room for someone else to love. He hated himself for a long time for his doubts, for wanting Meg to stop being unreasonable and not wanting to save herself. Now he thinks he understands.

He was an idiot.

“Stop doing that, man,” Dean huffs grumpily.

“Do what?”

“You’re fucking _beaming_. That’s pathetic!”

They share an affectionate gaze. Castiel beams even wider.

xxx

Sam is a good house boy. Meg observes him as he shuffles back and forth in the kitchen humming to himself, helping her to tide up. He seems to take pleasure in these little house works.

She forgets drying the dishes for a moment and leans against the counter, a hand resting on the small of her sore back. “You really enjoy this, don’t you?”

Sam hands her a plate. “Uh?”

“Being a housewife, playing family.” In the last few months, Meg and Castiel received a lot visits from the two Winchester brothers and with time it has become less and less awkward and more like an actual family reunion.

“I like the sense of stability you guys have found,” Sam gives her a small smile. “Makes me feel… I dunno, _good_.”

Meg glances outside, where Castiel and Dean are sitting side by side, laughing about something. “Your big brother isn’t one for roots, though. He gets hysterical when he stays too long in the same place. I have to say, there’s been a few times I wanted to chop his head off, tonight.”

Sam bites his lower lip to suppress the beginning of a snigger. “I'm sorry for Dean.  He's still a bit... you know, flabbergasted. We had no idea this could happen.” He hints at her bump.

Meg grins with a light pat on her belly. “Tell me about it.”

Sam slides close to her, eyeing her uncertainly. “What does it feel like?” he manages to ask, at last.

“To be carrying a demon-angel hybrid freak?”

Sam blushes. “No. I mean, just... to be carrying a baby.”

Meg can read a lifetime of deprivations between these lines. “Pretty much like having a goldfish swimming in your stomach,” she answers with a tiny shrug. “It's weird and funny and a little overwhelming.”

Sam is in awe. There’s a longing in his eyes Meg just cannot ignore. “You wanna feel?”

“Really?” The way he lights up does some trick to her heart, which leaps into her chest with a nice tingle.

Sam’s large hands cover Meg’s whole abdomen and they’re just as big as they are gentle. He waits a few seconds expectantly, but nothing happens. “I can’t –” Then he paralyses. The kick Meg feels is so strong it surely must have shocked Sam, too.

“Wow. That was…” He’s at a loss for words, and Meg can’t help thinking he’s adorable. She feels sorry for this young man who’s sacrificed so much of himself for people who will never even know. Perhaps she even feels a bit sorry for that jerk of a brother he has.

“You’re an awfully decent man, Sam Winchester,” she tells him, eliciting a fleeting smile from him.

“You make a decently awful demon, though, I must say.”

They return to the dishes in silence.

Sam keeps casting her surreptitious lopsided grins.

Meg can’t put her finger on it, but she guesses she’s gained a friend.

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon and there’s two nosy human brothers._

_There’s something like a family._

xxx

Castiel comes back home from work, one day, with a key in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.

Meg is in the kitchen chopping vegetables for lunch. She hates vegetables, but Castiel loves them, so she begrudgingly obliges. Besides, they’re good for her passenger.

“What is that?”

He grins.

Apparently, during his shift at the supermarket he overheard the creepy house at the town border was for sale for over three years and nobody wanted it, so it was now up for one dollar for whoever was sick enough to be willing to buy the site of a family blood tragedy. Of course, he didn’t miss the golden chance.

“We needed somewhere safe for you to have this baby,” Castiel explains, almost apologetically, eyeing the perfect roundness of her belly, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

Sometimes, Meg is still amazed to find him looking at her like that. She still firmly believes she doesn’t deserve him, but he, too, often says he doesn’t deserve her, so they’re just content to be two undeserving assholes, undeservingly sticking together through and through.

“I wish I could have afforded something better, for you.”

Meg doesn’t even want to hear the beginning of it. She snatches the document from Castiel and simpers at his goofy signature. “The paper says the place belongs to Jimmy Novak.” She’s not complaining. Secretly, she’s relieved – even happy, maybe – because this stupid building with blood on its walls and peeling paint everywhere has become important to her. She’s never cherished anything in her life, but what she has now… this is something wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

She and Castiel can now legitimately think of improvements. They can finally think of this house as _theirs_ and not as a temporary refuge.

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon and there’s a place for them to call home._

xxx

Meg is hoping the boys won’t show up. Not that she doesn’t appreciate their company (albeit she could live without Dean’s cheap irony) but she really would much rather pull this off on her own.

When she felt the first contraction, Castiel had just left. By noon, the contractions are twenty minutes apart. By two o’clock, the lapse has shrunk to fifteen.

Slouching down into the sofa, Meg curses through gritted teeth.

Castiel will be back at five. Dean and Sam are expected to arrive around six. So when, at about four, she’s writhing for five-minutes-apart contractions, she has a feeling the dinner will have to be canceled.

When Castiel arrives, he finds her bent over the counter, breathing hard, knuckles white for how hard she holding onto it. The floor is wet all around her feet.

“Meg?”

“Hello, Clarence,” she pants, eyes shut in pain.

“What’s going on?”

“My water broke.”

All colour instantly drains from his face as he rushes to her. “Is it time? Should I call a doctor?”

“No doctors. We’ve been over this.” They didn’t even want to risk check-ups, fearing for what a sonogram could show. Last thing they need is a human ass slaughtered by a demon unable to control herself.

Castiel is anxious but manages to keep his cool and carry Meg to the bedroom. He helps her take her clothes off and change into a more comfortable oversize t-shirt.

“What should I do?” he inquires in panic as she struggles to climb into the bed. “Do you want me to –”

Meg sinks back into the pillows and shakes her head lightly. “There’s nothing you can do. Just sit back and wait.”

So he does.

When the Winchesters arrive, Meg is sweaty and flushed and having a hard time breathing evenly.

Dean’s voice comes from the hallway: “Is the lazy bitch still in bed?” His tone has lost its pungent vibe in time. Now he only teases her for the sheer sake of bantering, although they still pretend not to be anywhere near friends, just because it’s more fun this way.

Castiel guides them into the room and when the boys see her they stop on the threshold like a door has been slammed on their noses.

“And here come Gay and Gayer,” Meg whines in annoyance. Her tolerance levels have dropped due to the physical distress and seeing them goggle at her like that isn’t really helping.

“Hey, Meg,” Dean greets mischievously. “Looking gorgeous, today.”

“Thanks. Wish I could say the same about you, Freckles.” Another contraction takes over her, making her lean forward to ride it. “I hate to spoil your boys night, Clarence, but I think it’s time.”

“Wait,” All of a sudden Dean doesn’t look so confident. “You mean the baby is coming _now_?”

“Apologies for the inconvenience, Deano,” Meg snarls in between deep breaths. “Can’t really put the guy on hold, I’m afraid.”

Dean is petrified. Castiel is petrified. Sam looks like he’s on the verge of a panic attack.

“Great,” Meg snorts, trying to push herself up a bit. “I guess I’m going to have to do this alone.”

She has no idea what’s going on under the sheet covering her legs, but just feels she has to _push_. She used to be one of Hell’s finest torturers, so she knows a few things about pain, and what she’s going through is top class material.

Her curses, at least, seem to jolt Sam awake from his trance. The same can’t be said about the other two useless dummies.

“What do you need?” Sam asks, running to her.

Meg lets out a low lament. “How would I know? Never given birth before!”

“Alright.” Sam looks around frantically. Meg can almost hear his brains race. “I’ll, uh… I’ll get towels and… hot water. I guess.” He darts past his brother and Castiel. The two morons don’t even blink.

“Dammit, Clarence!” Meg yells, throwing him one of the pillows. “Get your feathers together and _do something!_ ”

Castiel _does_ something.

He passes out.

xxx

“Hey there, little Dean!”

“You mean _Sam_.”

“I said Dean, I mean Dean, smartass.”

“He doesn’t even look like a Dean!”

“He certainly doesn’t look like a Sam, either!”

Meg rolls her eyes, her newborn baby boy safely tucked into her arms. “Sorry for the interruption, kids, but the angel and I would like to have a say in naming our son. If it’s not too much to ask.”

Castiel is sitting beside her on the bed and has cut all connections with the outer world. When Sam slapped him awake to the baby’s wail, all Castiel could do was glide towards the child and the woman holding him and fall into a worshipping contemplation.

“He’s a goner,” Dean grins, voice a little croaky, wiping the corner of an eye with the back of his hand.

Sam frowns at him. “Dean, are you _crying_?”

“ ‘course not! I just have a, uh, twig or something.”

Meg adjusts the baby against her chest, watching his tiny fingers clutch blindly at her t-shirt as he feeds. He’s perfect. He also looks thoroughly human – no demon face, no angel wings – but who knows what powers he might have, some day.

She’s mesmerised and very proud of herself. She’s also sure the crushing joy she feels in her heart is not normal and certainly not healthy.

“Look at him, Clarence,” she whispers.

“I’m looking,” he replies softly, a hand brushing over her neck. “I am so proud of you, Meg.”

“Well, I deserve it, right? I’ve done all the hard work. You only helped in the most fun part. No recrimination intended, but…”

“What do you want to name him?”

“I get to pick?”

He smiles. “You earned it.”

“Alright, then.” Meg slides a finger into the baby’s tiny fist and wiggles it gently. “Hello, Daniel.”

Castiel presses his lips to her forehead and envelops his arms around her and his child, both he and Meg basking in the blast of human emotions they have inside.

“Okay, guys, Danny’s cool,” Dean blurts. “But next one’s gonna be Dean, and I don’t care if it’s a girl”

xxx

_There’s an angel and a demon._

_And two human brothers._

_And a baby._

_And something like a family._

_And a place to call home._

_“We’re going to Heaven, Clarence,” she said once, a whole lifetime ago._

_She was right._

**Author's Note:**

> And here it is. Again, sorry for the shameless fluff. I really needed it, though.  
> I re-read the story a few times and fixed all the typos I found, but if I missed any, please let me know.  
> I hope you enjoyed the reading. Comments are food for a writer's soul, so... yeah, thanks in advance for anyone who'll take a minute to leave one.


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